


Like an Orange from Vanaheim

by applecore



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Belly Kink, Kink Discovery, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-26 13:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20931287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecore/pseuds/applecore
Summary: Thor finds Loki surrounded by empty plates, his hand resting gingerly on his stomach.





	Like an Orange from Vanaheim

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Temperist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temperist/gifts).

> Dear recip, I hope you enjoy this stuffing porn. :D

Thor walks into Loki’s chambers and finds a banquet devastated. Any number of delicacies prepared by the palace’s estimable cooks have been laid waste, their plates bare but for crumbs. The debris litters the table, radiating out from the epicenter: from Loki himself, currently leaning against the back of his chair, his eyes closed and one hand resting gingerly on his stomach. 

It’s an arresting sight. Thor only stopped by to see if Loki wished to come falconing with him—or, lacking that, if Loki cared for a tumble—but at this moment Thor doubts he could tell a jess from a hood if his life depended upon it. Mouth dry, Thor says, “Surely you’re not finished, brother.”

Loki’s eyes pop open. Thor sees a flash of alarm, quickly masked. He sees, too, the moment Loki decides this scene cannot be explained away. “Brother,” he drawls. He makes to sit a little more upright, but the motion causes him to wince and press his hand a little more sharply against his stomach. Then, utterly out of keeping with the brother Thor knows, Loki belches hugely.

Afterwards, there’s no mistaking Loki’s alarm anymore, nor the set of his jaw as he braces for the teasing he doubtless expects to follow.

Teasing is far, far away from Thor’s mind now. “You’ve been busy,” Thor says, still feeling as if he’s taken a hit to the head, as if the world has tilted without warning. He advances carefully, in case the floor should move under his feet—or in case Loki should take offense and disappear, as he’s so prone to.

Thor wants very much for Loki to stay where he is, just now. And Loki does, watching Thor’s approach warily, unmoving. His hand still lies distractingly against himself, his long fingers caught up in the folds of his tunic. The curve of them accentuates how bloated he is by the contents of all those empty plates. 

Hardly knowing what he does, Thor sinks to his knees at Loki’s side. Loki’s eyes get bigger and bigger; he stares at Thor, clearly unnerved. Thor dares not touch yet. He hardly dares think of touching. He says, “Does it pain you?”

Loki swallows. “A little,” he says. He shifts his weight and winces again.

“May I?” Thor asks.

Loki doesn’t ask what he means. He says, “All right.” 

Thor lifts his hand and cups the side of Loki’s stomach oh so carefully. “That tickles,” Loki says, unimpressed.

Too carefully, then. Thor presses more firmly, and even through Loki’s tunic, it’s apparent how very full he is, how little give he has left. Thor lifts his other hand up to mirror the first, so that he has Loki’s whole enormously swollen stomach in his hands. He can feel the rounded swell of it; it takes his breath away.

“You could make yourself useful, if you like,” Loki says drily. He seems entirely recovered from his earlier alarm. “Just—not too hard.”

With Loki’s sharp eye on him, Thor begins gently, rubbing circles into Loki’s stomach with his hands. When that seems all right, he presses a little harder, working in with the heels. Loki begins to belch again, more quietly this time, a series of small hiccups that he covers with the back of his hand.

“I’ve never seen you like this before,” Thor says. 

“I’m not surprised, since I’ve never _been_ like this before.” Loki’s tone is tart with an edge that could go sour.

“You thought you’d experiment, then?” Thor asks casually, his eyes firmly on Loki’s stomach—on that impossible swell, intoxicatingly round. “Challenge Volstagg to a contest, perhaps?”

“Gods, no,” Loki says. He chuckles, but it’s a light, breathless sound, as if he’s having trouble getting enough air. “You can put your hands _under_ the tunic, if you like.”

Thor scrambles to do so, slipping his hands underneath the cloth to Loki’s skin, hot and silky-soft and so roundly firm. The feel of it makes Thor’s mouth water. He is uncomfortably hard, he realizes; possibly he has been for a while.

Loki’s stomach gurgles loudly under Thor’s hands. Thor stuffs down the ridiculous urge to give it an encouraging pat, payment for having to work so very hard. Instead he brings his hands around to the sides, massaging with his thumbs, soothing with his palms. Loki’s stomach makes another noise, a long, agonized groan. Loki hiccups again and then sighs in something that sounds like relief. “Better?” Thor asks.

“Mm.” Loki shifts his weight again. Then, with that carefree casualness Thor knows better than to trust, he says, “I almost feel a little hungry again.”

Startled, Thor peers at Loki’s face. Some of the strain has faded—thanks to Thor’s hands, perhaps—and now there’s a mischievous light in his eye. “_Loki_,” Thor says, nearly overcome. “You should not—you must not _injure_ yourself.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’m in any danger of that yet. But if you were to fetch me some of those pear pastries Gudrun has coming out of the oven, perhaps a cold draught of milk…” He leaves the possibility open, hanging there for Thor to grasp onto.

Thor is on his feet before he’s had time to think, but once there, he hesitates. “You’ll be here when I get back?”

Loki rolls his eyes. “Where would I go like this?”

Thor takes in the view again: the plates scattered with crumbs; Loki pressed to the back of his chair, knees spread, stomach heavy and full and gluttonous. Suddenly Thor is torn between chasing after Loki’s dangling promise and simply sinking back to his knees, perhaps pushing the hem of Loki’s tunic up far enough so that he can kiss the swell of his stomach.

Loki lifts an eyebrow, cool, ironic, but it’s the rising flush in his cheeks that gets Thor moving. “I’ll be but a moment!” he calls behind him.

It’s a lie; it takes Thor five minutes to trek to the kitchens, sneak four cooling pastries and a bottle of milk from under Gudrun’s nose, and hurry back to Loki’s rooms again. He is certain as he approaches that Loki will be gone, that this is all a joke at Thor’s expense—he is still stiff with want, and walking is awkward—or that Loki will have simply lost interest.

Once he’s inside, he’s sure for a moment that his fears were founded. Then: “In here.” 

Thor strides into Loki’s sleeping chamber and finds Loki sitting propped against the head of his bed, looking expectant. “Scoot over,” Thor says, and when he does, Thor sits next to him and hands him the pastries, tied up in a napkin. Loki’s eyes are bright as he opens the bundle, and Thor’s mouth waters a little, too. Gudrun doesn’t make this recipe often, and she’s smacked Thor’s knuckles more than once for trying to steal one. Fortune has favored him today, allowing him to so thoroughly escape her notice.

Still, “How can you possibly have room?” Thor asks. He sees now that the laces of Loki’s trousers are loosed, to save them pressing at the bottom of his stomach. The very sight of it sends a new bolt of heat through him.

“Determination,” Loki says crisply.

“Or perhaps it’s because I’ve done such a good job working all the extra air out,” Thor says, teasing. 

Loki ignores him, selects one of the pastries, and takes a bite. Then, gods help Thor, Loki _moans_. It’s a sound of sheer bliss, and through a mouth of crumbs he says, “Still hot.”

It is exquisite torture to watch Loki work his way deliberately through the first pastry, then the second. He pauses for a swallow of milk, and then he says, a little bit strained, “You’d better make yourself useful again if you want me to finish these.” 

There is nothing in the world Thor would rather do. Carefully he crawls up onto the bed, straddling Loki’s knees so that he can put his hands on him. He slides his hands under Loki’s tunic and, feeling so very daring, he rucks it slowly up until the material is bunched at the top of Loki’s stomach. Loki is so round, so visibly swollen, that it takes Thor’s breath away. But Thor has a job to do and no chance to touch himself as he would like; that will have to wait. 

He massages his thumbs gently into the taut skin, working a couple more quiet burps out of Loki before Loki is ready to apply himself to the third pastry. Thor imagines he can feel the change when Loki has swallowes that next bite, and the next. A thought occurs to Thor, very belatedly. “Are you using magic?” he asks, sweeping his palm over Loki’s stomach to convey what he means.

“No,” Loki says. He’s short of breath again, with a new strain in his voice. “Where’s the fun in that? Hel.” This last seems directed at himself. He rubs ineffectually at the side of his stomach.

Thor brushes Loki’s hand gently out of the way and begins working at the same spot. “You should stop, if you wish.”

“I _don’t_ wish,” Loki says peevishly, and lifts the pastry to his mouth again. And indeed he finishes it and takes a long swallow of milk after. He closes his eyes. 

Thor keeps on working circles into his flesh, now obviously more swollen than when Thor first began. He listens to Loki’s pained little burps, and finally he dares ask, “You won’t be sick?”

“No, no, I took an elixir for that. No—urp—no indigestion later, either.”

“Very clever of you,” Thor says.

“Of course,” Loki says, but he still sounds pained, and his eyes are still shut. “I think the last pastry is for you, brother.” He says it like a concession, like defeat, and Thor can’t have that. He picks up the pastry in its napkin and sets it aside. Then he leans in close, a hand on Loki’s belly, and he kisses him. Loki sighs against his mouth. “I hope you’re not expecting much,” he says.

“I cannot _believe_,” Thor says, and trails off, unable to even articulate all the things he can’t believe. “You’ve outdone yourself.” He settles back so that he can take Loki’s stomach in both hands—swollen round as a globe, or an orange brought from Vanaheim. “How do you feel?”

“Ridiculously glutted. Gloriously replete.” He shifts on the bed and put his hands on himself, near Thor’s, but now the gesture seemes one of triumph instead of pain. “Obscene. I wanted to see if I liked it.”

“And do you?”

Loki considers that a while as he sweeps his hands over himself. His stomach gurgles again, straining, and a smile plays across his lips. “I believe I like it quite well.”

“So do I,” Thor admits—too honest, perhaps, but he feels undone by all this, and he’s long since dropped the usual guard he keeps against Loki’s jabs.

“Mm, yes, I noticed,” Loki says, but there is no barb in his tone, not today. “Will you show me?”

So Thor at last takes himself in hand, while Loki watches with bright eyes and studied casualness. Thor would be embarrassed by how quickly he comes, except it seems that he’s been on a knife’s edge of desire for a half hour or more. He cleans himself up and then, when he returns, says, “What about you?”

“I already have what I wanted,” Loki says, resettling himself against the headboard. He is the picture of self-satisfaction. “I feel I would just like to digest now.”

“You have a great deal of it to do,” Thor agrees. Somehow, only ten minutes after release, he feels himself taking an interest again. He distracts himself by flopping next to Loki on the bed—to Loki’s vocal disgruntlement—and taking up the lone abandoned pastry. “I’ll keep you company,” he says, and takes a theatrical bite. Gods, it’s delicious, even cooled.

There are a number of things Loki might say now—jokes and teasing, edged sharp or dull as his mood takes him. But he says none of them. He laces his fingers under his stomach and closes his eyes. Thor reaches over to gently massage the surface of that swell, and the corner of Loki’s mouth ticks up.

And so they stay all the rest of the long, languid afternoon.

END


End file.
